


Pull the Trigger

by nerdofthenile



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Execution, France - Freeform, Gun Violence, Hope you all enjoy, My First AO3 Post, On The Barricade, Shooting, This Is Sad, from the officers POV, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdofthenile/pseuds/nerdofthenile
Summary: The story of the barricade, retold by an officer of the National Guard.





	Pull the Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this is my first post on AO3! YAY!  
> So, this is sad, I know, but I had this idea and wanted to write it down. I drew from both the musical and book for this? The officer is the one who sings in "Upon These Stones: At the Barricade" in the musical.  
> And if it wasn't clear, the first two men he sees are Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the boy is Gavrouche, and the leader of the barricade is of course Enjolras.

He had never been someone to pull the trigger.

  
Even from his childhood, he was the one who hung back, who didn't make himself well-known. The one who everyone knew wouldn't answer the question the teacher had asked, who would sit in the corner when the other kids played in the streets. He was too scared to ask if he could play. At home, he was the last of his siblings to finish his meal (he would regret this later, when hunger was rampant), and he would sit at the table until even his mother finally left the kitchen. She would sit and embroider pretty flowers on something nice while he fled outside into the fields, the only place he really felt he was comfortable. The one place quiet enough. The place where he did feel like he could go first, do something.

  
And never, never in his life, would he have ever thought to fight.

  
But that was before the Revolution. That was before their food got scarcer. That was before his father ran with the neighbor's wife. That was before his mother packed up what little they had and moved him and his siblings from their spacious country farm to the confinements of the city, where she could find work easier. Before he watched his eldest brother, just about in his mid-twenties, sling his pack over his shoulder and plant a kiss on each of their foreheads before going off to join the ranks. He remembers his brother's face perfectly. Sculpted cheeks, blue eyes, wild brown curls that framed his face. His smile was like a string of stars as he walked away from their shabby little city home, following others to go battle for what seemed like a wonderful, brave, glorious cause at the time.

  
That was the last time he ever saw his brother.

  
After the news got to them, that he had been shot down, that his brother was never going home, that was when the reality settled in. France never truly settled after the Revolution. One sister got sick from starvation. Another screamed in her sleep. The youngest of them all, his baby brother, slept through it all, so soundly sometimes he thought he was dead. And his mother never spoke anymore. she only stared off into the distance, tear tracks staining her face without any tears falling down. She would hold a scrap of cloth was belonging to his brother's best jacket, and just clutchedEvery day crept by with nothing being accomplished. Turning, turning, turning through every second of every day. It was the worst time of his life.  
He thought that would be it, nothing but starvation and sickness and silence and trauma.

  
Then he heard about the National Guard.

  
Of course he had heard of it. The soldiers who fought in the Revolution. Led by the best, the famous Lafayette one of the first and greatest. Their uniforms were polished and shiny. When he made deliveries to the bars from the bakery, sometimes, he would see them. Their gold buttons would twinkle in the light from the windows and their hats looked so large on their slim heads. But he had never given it much thought.

  
Not until one of his friends joined up. He watched him soar above every rank until he commanded a troop of his own.

  
That was when he decided. He wanted that. That glory. Command. It was something he never had as a teen, watching his family deteriorate as more was thrown their way. and what could he do? Help bake? And just bread? And for what pay? He wanted those glossy uniforms with the huge hats and the buttons that reflected the light. He wanted the security of having a job that was rewarding. He wanted the wave of his hand to bring men running to battle, the control he lacked as a kid and onward. He wanted to be on the National Guard.

So he joined the National Guard. 

  
~  
He marched with his fellow soldiers towards where the disturbance had been reported. His uniform clung to his skin in the city heat. He still kept his eyes forward, one arm swinging diligently by his side while the other clutched his gun over his shoulder. The men around him which he commanded walked in perfect sync with him despite the sluggish weather.

  
They had heard word of the rebellion that had sprung up in the town square only a day ago or so. He and other officers had immediate commands from the higher-ups to dismantle it as quickly as possible. It was supposedly a group of mere students, so it was supposed to be one of the easier tasks the National Guard had to complete. But they had been warned to not underestimate the enemy. It had landed them all in trouble before and would no doubt land them in trouble again.

  
The only sound on the streets was the monotonous marching of the National Guard as it headed for it's destination.

  
Apparently, they actually had underestimated this rebellion, because when they came to the initial site of the uprising, they were met with the sight of a barricade. And not just any barricade. It appeared to be made of furniture, chairs and dressers and tables and more, broken and piled up into one massive heap. It stretched from one side of the road to the other, blocking off the cul-de-sac from the rest of the road. It rose a good few meters up, with holes looking like they were haphazardly patched with old trunks and cabinets.  
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't impressed.

  
His troop came up and took position, him stalking off to the side, ready to give the call. He'd been told to give the warning this time. It wasn't his first, he'd done it with other small-scale, similar revolts in the past. All he had to do was shout out to them to either surrender or be killed. If they listened, they were arrested, and the job was done. But if they didn't, he would bring his hand down and call for the soldiers to start firing.

  
He should have been used to the second option by now, but he still had to clench his teeth at the sound of the gunfire.  
And this would be like every other uprising, with either option weighing the fate of the revelers, and nothing would be out of the ordinary.  
Shouts began to sound from behind the barricade. The words were nothing new— reform, change, fight and die for freedom. It was the youth in those voices that traced a lance near his heart. The pitches that clearly haven't seen past the rust of age yet. These were young students then. University, maybe. And the excited squealing of an even younger voice hit a little harder. There was a child back there too, then. A boy. Judging from the voice, he couldn't have been past twelve at most.  
He felt a lump rise in his throat.  
He signaled for his men to take position. They did. Air flooded his throat as they sat at the ready, waiting for a visual sign from the barricade that there was indeed life back there. Soon, they provided.

  
The first to peep his head out was a young man, maybe in his twenties. He had a head of wild hair that looked like it had attempted to be styled, and the look of determination on his face. He had the smirk of a flirtatious man.  
The second was a man who looked very well read, if one could look that way, with straight hair and a twinkle of fear and curiosity in his stance. His clothing was disheveled, but he didn't look awful.

  
Others came up, all with fierce expressions of excitement and fear that made him want to sigh. Every time, these faces showed up. Every time they disappeared as quickly as he saw them.  
One hopped up dangerously near the very top of the barricade, significantly shorter than the rest. His clothing was practically in rags, dirt smudging everywhere. His hung to his shoulders. He held tight to the barricade like how he thought a monkey would. That had to be the boy, then. He did look very young.

  
There was only one student who stood at the top of the barricade, higher than the young boy.

  
The sight of that face struck him hard, so hard, he feared he'd fall. It brought back the memory, watching out the open door, feeling his brother's lips peck his forehead in a last farewell, forever. The face of this man almost perfectly matched brother's. The perfectly proportioned cheeks, the ocean blue eyes. The halo of curls on his head gleamed blonde in the sunlight. His lips were set in a fine line, a different expression than the excited smirks and resolute frowns from the other students. It was a terrifying expression. He looked so calm. Collected. A confidence that shrieked without making a sound.

  
He felt horror pooling in his gut. He didn't know if he could move.  
That man was an angel of death coming to kill them all, and in the haunting image of his own brother.  
Did his brother die exactly like this? Fighting off the newly formed National Guard behind weak stick forts, with the knowledge that he was probably going to die but still standing there ready to take every bullet if it meant freedom?

  
His men were getting impatient. He had no choice in this. He had to speak. He inhaled, lashed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, either to moisten his lips or get feeling back into the muscle, he didn't really know himself. Raising his voice up, he shouted his script.

  
"You at the barricade, listen to this,” his voice was already becoming hoarse in his throat, each face that peeked from the barricade hardly moved at the volume, “No one is coming to help you fight. You’re on your own.” It took all his soul’s strength to keep his voice steady. “You have no friends. Give up your guns, or die!”  
His words echoed off the buildings that lined the street. The rest of his breath came out in a short puff, mixing with the day’s heat. Even when he got his position as officer, his heart had never beat so quickly before. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. He was almost scared it was going so fast, it’d stop and he’d die right there.

  
Why was he so scared of a group of middle-class university students with the probable brain size of a pea?

  
But staring back into the cold eyes of the young man at the top reminded him not to underestimate them.  
He watched the young man’s lips twitch, then waver, then perk up into what could only be seen as the most petrifying expression. It was one of knowledge, of fervor, and of stone hard passion. There was something in that man, he didn’t know what, but it burned.  
It came like a bullet to his face that this was why he had this group of students behind him. That look. And when he spoke out, he had the voice of a leader to match.  
“Damn their warnings, damn their lies,” it didn’t even look like it took much effort to scream, as if the youth standing there above him regularly had a voice that boomed, “they will see the people rise!”  
At the sound of the man’s voice, the students looked up at him, admiration piercing their bodies as they stood prouder, taller. And then from the barricade, every student, including the young boy, repeated his words, raising rifles along in their chant. “Damn their warnings, damn their lies, they will see the people rise!”  
Each face slowly melted into a perfect copy of the blond man’s face. Passion. Belief in freedom that they thought they could have. But that aside. These young men had a fervor unlike any revolt he had seen before.

  
And he didn’t want to shoot.  
His eyes kept away from the revelling students and kept on the face of who had to be their leader. Blue eyes met his own. Again, he was shocked back to the doorway, his brother walking off, waving, hardly a life of his own really, no one would know his name but his family, that look in his eyes that said _don’t worry, don’t cry, I’m gonna fight for what is right._  
 _I’ll come back. I’ll come home._

  
He shook his head. These were idiots. Fighting for what was right never helped a soul. It only landed you dead somewhere either freezing cold or scorching hot. It did nothing. It only complicated things.  
His arm went into position to tell his men to fire. The barricade leader didn’t even flinch. He just kept on staring, his smile gone, now replaced with a stare and his lips pressed together. The others around him had since disappeared back behind the barricade, assumingly taking position to defend their cause. But he didn’t move.  
He just stood there, red vest fluttering in the wind that only churned the heat around.  
It was like the man knew.  
He halted his men, who looked at him in confusion. He told them in hushed voices that they would wait for the other officers with their troops. He didn’t want a reprimanding for not following through with the plan without everyone else. Even though there was pure annoyance at the hesitation, it sated them for now. They pulled back.

  
The young man at the top of the barricade stood there for only a few seconds more before hopping down and disappearing behind the pile of wood.

  
~  
Staring at his gun, he wondered what was going through the young man’s mind as he stood there in the windowframe, the same exact expression on his face as before, demanding they shoot him in the name of France. The drunkard that stumbled up to him, declaring himself as a revolutionary too, going and holding hands with the youth who had swayed a group of students to die.  
And they smiled when his fellow officer let his hand fall.

  
But he couldn't shoot.

  
So he watched as the two men were riddled with bullets. He watched them fall. The expression on the leader's face never faltered. Even during his death, he held his passion.

  
He was not scoffed. No one let him off his duties forever. Even his fellow officer clamped him on the shoulder once, twice, before going to move the men out with the knowledge that they had successfully put the rebellion down.

  
He could not feel that same success.

  
Every time he blinked he saw the young man's face.

  
And that's when he questioned. Had he been there, a student in university, would he have joined? Would he have listened to the fiery passion that laced that man's voice? Would he have stolen his gun or bought it? how many nights would he spend drunk and laughing and singing for tomorrow, even though there was that logic that tomorrow would never really come? Would he have shot at the incoming National Guard, armed only with a rifle he didn't know how to use and the fleeting thoughts that every breath he took then and there could be his last?  
And then, all of a sudden, he was grateful he wasn't. And all for one reason.

  
He was never one to pull the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> No French rebels were harmed in the making of this fic. 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments or critique below! :D


End file.
